The ADHD Texting Queen

The new ADHD boss, aka Chatterbox Boss, is forcing me to accept this new Palm Pixie thing. At first it sounded like a great idea. What's there not to love about getting that new Palm. Bring it on. I used to equate the complexity of the work gadget to the importance of the person at the company.

So Chatterbox Boss starts telling me about the gadget and how great it is. He finds himself shooting off emails like bullets at 2 a.m. In this age of international business this little thing, no bigger than a matchbox, will allow me to work 24/7. That's when I found myself backing away. Um no, maybe I don't need this seemingly important gadget for V.I.Ps after all. I don't want to be a slave to technology and gadgets, which I already am.

The ADHD mind fires off ideas and thoughts at the speed of light, and I find myself texting people at the speed of light. Perhaps it is the shygirl in me who wants attention and finds that a text, just like email, allows one the freedom to be behind the signs. I've been shooting off texts as a gangster would bullets.

The Sister has pointed out that I'm an addict. The last time we hung out I couldn't take off my eyes off of the little purple cell phone--kept sneaking peaks at the screen as one does to their lover. Finally exploded and grabbed the little thing out of my hands.

"Give me that," she hissed and turned it off.

"Hey give it back," I whined. I don't know how this happened. On one hand the cell phone and texting is the perfect answer to the ADHD brain. Speed, quickness and instant responses and gratification, yet I am pissing people off as I take this 3.0 path.

I gave the Sister a much needed, "I'm sorry." She looked like a cat that had just been forced to take a bath. Too late.

With my new gadget on the job there is that same two-pronged fear. I'm afraid I'll become a slave to it, and burn out from the tsunami of emails from Chatterbox Boss, who himself has said he has ADHD. In the end, I have no choice. Come Monday the gadget will be placed in my hands like a brand new set of car keys to an over-exuberant 16-year-old driver. All I can say is God help me.